Much discussion has arisen about the Jan. 5 shooting at Millard South High School by parents, pundits and the press. As students, we feel obligated to lift our own voices and say what we think.
Today, our nation is in mourning. On Saturday afternoon, on a clear Arizona day, a lone gunman opened fire on a small crowd gathered to meet their elected representative. Eighteen people were hurt in the attack, six of whom have since died, including a federal judge and a 9-year-old girl. U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, a Democrat from Arizona's 8th District, lies in a hospital recovering from a gunshot wound to the head.
In 2007, the Westroads shooting left people stunned that something so dramatic could happen in the Midwest. Yet, recurring gang activity in some parts of town didn't seem to affect the general public.
It's that time of year when you hear "Merry Christmas," often from strangers. In the last few years, though, there has been increasing discussion about whether this is insensitive to those of other religions.
The epithet "hipster" is flung around a lot, but no one seems able to define what a hipster is. Is it someone who dresses oddly, drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon and loves music most people have never heard of? Then we've got hundreds, possibly over a thousand of these characters (myself included) careering around Omaha, all going to record stores and fist-bumping one another.
Maybe there's something in the water. Maybe they've spent too much time in the sun. Or maybe they're just constitutionally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, but something is clearly wrong with Arizona's most prominent Republican politicians. Arizona's not known for being the most progressive state in the union; I'm old enough to remember the way they fought against recognizing Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday as a national holiday in the early 1990s.
Yesterday, I changed my Facebook profile picture to one of my many fictional heroes: Sailor Moon. My friends were all doing it (along with the "December Pokémon Profile Picture" event), and I knew it had something to do with awareness for child abuse.
I'm five years old again and squealing with delight. It's the day before Thanksgiving and ABC Family is showing "Beauty and the Beast." Belle, my favorite princess (sorry, Ariel. You're a close second) is singing her theme song about the provincial life she lives in France on the screen in front of me, and I get goose bumps.